


Alone

by Wolfic



Category: Secret (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfic/pseuds/Wolfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hyosung deals with her mistake, Jieun misses the noise, Sunhwa wonders about her friends, Hana reminisces about the dark and together, they comfort one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clayray3290](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayray3290/gifts).



Hyosung doesn’t hesitate or falter when she enters the small dressing room. Her expression is carefully neutral and the anxiety that should tear at her heart is small enough that surely no one would hear the painful thudding. It’s not the first photo shoot she’s done by herself, lingerie notwithstanding, and solo activities can no longer induce trepidation in her chest or cause sweat to trickle out wet against her brow and palms. But the whispers still cling to her lithe frame, sticky and unpleasant and that single damnable word is still branded onto her pale flesh, spread out across her forehead like an ugly patch of zits and pimples. Look at me, the word screams, look at me and remember the ignorance and folly that these beautiful red lips have sown. 

None of the staff, familiar or not, mention it; perhaps it is an unspoken kindness, perhaps it is a necessary cruelty. The industry for all of its glamour and glitter and heart moving sparkles is still a business; numbers decide which dreams are granted, not love and not pity. Besides, what need is there for spit covered filth from these nameless souls when so many faceless demons already paint walls and walls of black inked vulgarities online? 

Hyosung undresses in front of a single body mirror, privacy granted only by a thin yellow curtain. 

She takes a slow measured look at her body, her beautiful beautiful broken body that’s sharp in places that she had once recalled to be smooth. Her breasts are no longer as full and her thighs no longer as wide but surely her lovely smile is still the same? She smiles at her reflection, peeling back her lips to reveal her gums, cherry pink, and wonders if it is indeed still as beautiful. At least, she muses darkly, the humor thick in her throat, her body doesn’t have a mouth to speak with and a tongue to stumble over. 

She picks up the leopard spotted brassiere and puts it on.

\---

Jieun closes her eyes and leans against the sofa, the leathery softness a strange, yet kind friend. Years spent lounging around in waiting rooms expectant of that miniscule moment to shine, to sing until her throat bleeds out all of her flaws and agonies, staining her crème colored dress red, has trained her to recognize these various different furniture pieces. She’s rather certain, though it may just be wistful thinking to ease the wait and that small itchy annoyance that is boredom, that she had this exact same room the last time she came to perform for M! Countdown. But back then she had her members with her.

She trains her ears onto her surroundings. It’s quiet, too much for her. Silence had a way of playing with her heart like an old broken toy, squeezing and squeezing until the seams came undone and everything spills out, foul and wretched. Doubts had a way of destroying people, piling on rocks and stones until the ache in your shoulders become too much to bear and your knees shatter from the cruel weight. And then, all you can do is curl up on the dirty floor crying and crying, and maybe, someone will be decent enough to help you up. How lonesome this industry of dreams is.

Sunhwa and Hana aren’t there to tease one another, Hyosung isn’t there to chide them when they get too loud and Jieun can’t smile fondly at the sight of the minor squabbling because there’s nothing to smile at right now.

So she closes her eyes and waits as a small hum rumbles in her pretty little throat.

\---

Sunhwa’s not all that certain why she’s grown so attached to her phone these days, hard as it is to ease her manager’s paranoia enough to let her hold it. It’s not a shameful habit; plenty of people around her age and in the same profession do it, glued to the small plastic device like it’s their lifeline. And maybe, in a way it is.

She scrolls through her contacts while she waits to be called to film. Variety shows, for all of the fear that they strike in rookies with thick fat tongues that dangle uselessly in their mouths, don’t startle her anymore. Maybe before there was fear, but now, shed of the anonymity that was her cocooned flesh, she’s changed; told herself to, forced herself to, flown away with new wings. Change is needed and masks are to be crafted and worn, whether by knife or creativity of the mind.

The list is long, full of numbers exchanged out of obligations and social niceties but she wonders just how many of them would actually pick up and exchange pleasantries if she were to call them out of the blue right now. How many of these meaningful names connected to beautiful talented people could she dangle out to the media as a “friend?”

Her finger pauses when she reaches Kwanghee’s number, unable to move on even though her brain wants to slap her for her sentimentality. Pausing over Kwanghee’s number is a nasty little habit she has yet to break and every time she sees that name and those digits that she’s certain she’s memorized, a theory she dares not test, she contemplates calling. Their time spend married had brought their friendship closer than ever and sometimes when she felt daring enough she’d even consider the possibility of feelings. Love would be nice and Kwanghee is hardly the worst of targets. The other man understood her in a way that her members could only attempt to try. They both knew what it was like to bear the fate of their group upon their backs and to fall into the role of clown and jester, to paint targets of themselves for mockery. 

They don’t speak as much anymore, the ending of their stint as a couple sought to that. She regrets it if she’ll allow herself to, maybe shed a tear or two, but in the end she’ll move past it and when she sees him in the hallways she’ll greet with a bow and a smile and talk about things that mean nothing but sweetened air. 

But isn’t that how it always is with friendship in this industry?

Sunhwa moves past the number and continues scrolling.

\---

The club is small enough that the turnout, though few by her standards, is still enough to cram people from the front to the back and all around the bar. It’s a well maintained illusion, but the set list never lies. It’s the first time Hana visits and she doesn’t care for all the people so close to her, even at the bar. It’s not like she’s popular enough to draw looks of recognition with a single glance anyways, and plus, she’s wearing obstructive clothing, the stereotypical sunglasses, cap, and thick hoodie.

She watches the performer on stage, some no named middle school teen with a pocket full of change and head full of dreams as he spits verse after verse into his microphone, hoping to substitute fervor for creativity. How many of these mindless corpses tittering about even care to lend an ear to his lyrics? Teenage angst and falsified swagger is trite and dull but these nobodies have to start somewhere, Hana reckons. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, after all.

She remembers being that way once; young and ambitious, wanting nothing more than to carry her life with her well-crafted words. Days spent huddled over paper and pencil, days spent with a microphone close to her teeth, vomiting out all of her ideas until her throat burned from the strain, and eventually, when desperation poisons her mind she find herself watching the shiny company buildings with their beautiful little dancing devils, and suddenly the temptations they lace their words with sounds so honey sweet. Every underground rapper turned idol knows the feeling, that annoying doubt that hacks at their brains and muddles their dreams and they spend so many nights with what ifs and should-I-haves that they wonder if the chains they willingly clamped around their ankles and wrists are worth it. 

Hana chooses this no named club with their no named clients with a set list of no named rappers from top to bottom because she wants to reminisce and reflect and because she doesn’t particularly want to deal with the arguments that are sure to spring up should she run into someone she knows. Her ears still remembers the sting of the scorn earned for trading in hoodies and chains for bright pastel sundresses. How can one remain loved underground if all they do is prance about in the sunlight? 

She downs her drink, her throat barely feeling the singe, and leaves the money under the empty glass.

\---

Hana is the first one back to the dormitory and it’s a fact that has stopped surprising her long ago. She remembers a time when it was different, where sitting at home with nothing to do aggravated her more than anything and the dark ugly strips beneath Sunhwa’s fatigued eyes didn’t aspire sympathy as much as it did hateful hateful envy. Being tired isn’t a sin in the idol business and if it can help you get another foot into that doorway to success, maybe even just the small sliver of the top of your big toe, you’d be a damned fool not to take it.

The door opens and Hana lifts her head slightly off the floor where she lies to see who it is. Hyosung walks into the living room and doesn’t bother to snipe at Hana for her weird choice of resting places. Instead, she joins her on the floor, carefully laying her head on Hana’s stomach, appreciating the warmth that spreads against her cheek. The weird twitch that goes through Hana’s body at the sudden weight only makes Hyosung smile. 

They don’t bother to think about how long they plan to stay there and when Jieun enters sometime later with the door closing gently behind her, Hana has already started playing with Hyosung’s hair. Jieun blinks at the sight, once, twice, before bowing her head away and shyly skirting around the two. But Hyosung has her own plans and her hand stops Jieun with a firm grip on her ankle. Without question, Jieun relents and sits down as well. Slowly, Hyosung pulls Jieun to her chest and their legs tangle together awkwardly with Jieun’s arms dangling uselessly at her sides.

Sunhwa, who is just as eager and just as understanding, and wears her fatigue like an old coat, doesn’t question the arrangement when she finally arrives. She chooses the spot next to Hyosung and simply lays her head on Hana’s thighs.

The clock hanging from the wall ticks and tocks well past midnight when the four finally fall asleep against one another, now no longer alone.


End file.
